No Place Like Home
by lz-wtts
Summary: Sherlock and John take a case in Sherlock's hometown where John discovers dark shadows in his friend's past...along with the rest of the Holmes' family...
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

John was not sure whether the weathermen on local London television were completely inaccurate, or London's weather really was so unpredictable. But he was sure that when he was watching the tele the day before, that there was no chance of showers. And yet there he was, standing on the edge on the street in pouring rain, holding six bags of groceries, trying to call for a cab.

When he left the flat, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, so naturally he had no umbrella or raincoat. John cursed at himself for being so ill prepared. Afghanistan had been one temperature and one weather condition the whole time he was there, and he hadn't yet gotten used to the change in scenery. Although, if asked, he would've chosen London over Afghanistan any day.

The grocery bags only got heavier as he stood there. Finally, after practically jumping in front of it, a cab stopped for him.

"Thank you," he said to the driver as he settled himself comfortably in his seat. "221B Baker Street, please."

John apologized awkwardly to the cabbie for getting the seats so wet as he exited. The older man put up his hands. "Nothing to fret. Not the first time." John smiled at him.

Mrs. Hudson was at the door when he entered. "Well, Sherlock is having one of his fits again."

"Oh, dear," John said quietly. He started walking up the stairs.

"Yes. It's an awful one this time. Haven't heard him say a word since you left. I talked straight at him– he can be awfully rude anyway– but I talked straight at him and he just stared at the wall! Like I wasn't even there. You know, sometimes I worry about you two. I don't know how you could stand–"

Mrs. Hudson's voice faded away as John reached the top of the stairs. He almost dropped the groceries as he looked down on the floor. Two magazines were on fire.

"Dammit," John said as he stamped out the fire as best he could, but there was too much. "Mrs. Hudson! Fire!"

He heard the woman yelp in fright before he set the groceries on the coffee table. As he ran to the kitchen, Sherlock emerged with two small sandwiches on a plate and one in his mouth. "John? What's wrong?" he asked, his mouth full.

"Fire," John said as he jumped passed him. He ran a rag underneath the faucet and went back to throw it on the flames.

"No, no, no, no," Sherlock said angrily. He placed his plate of food on the table next to the groceries and shooed John away from the pile of burnt magazine.

"Sherlock, what the hell? Did you start that?" John asked.

"Yes," the other man said as he gathered up the remnants of the papers.

"Sherlock! You could have started a serious fire! What were you thinking?" John's face was red with anger as he yelled.

"Calm yourself. I was doing an experiment," Sherlock responded calmly.

"An experiment?"

"Yes. On the different burning reactions of printed ink."

John scrunched his eyebrows together in confusion before becoming angry again. "What the hell is that good for?"

Sherlock paused, dropped the burnt papers on the floor, and walked back to his sandwiches. "I don't know. Just to see?"

Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway with a fire extinguisher. "Move, boys!"

"No, stop!" John yelled. He grabbed the red cylinder. "It's fine. We have it under control." Sherlock grinned as he nibbled on his sandwich.

After being calmed down, Mrs. Hudson walked back down stairs, holding the extinguisher tightly to her chest. John sighed as he sat down beside Sherlock.

"So, what's all this about?" he asked reluctantly.

"I was bored," Sherlock said. "It's either experiments or the heroine."

John nodded. He would rather have the experiments.

Sherlock's boredom had led him to occasional drug use. Stimulates were often his drug of choice, since marijuana and alcohol only slowed his mental functions. John was able to convince his friend to quit for the time being. Not just for serious health reasons, but that it wasn't fair to drag John into Sherlock's own legal troubles. "Guilty by association" they say.

"I understand, but why don't you try just going out?" John asked. "I mean, like a normal person."

"And what do _normal_ people do, John?" Sherlock sighed.

"I don't know. Go to the theatre. Or go to a pub, I don't care, but don't set the bloody flat on fire!"

Sherlock grimaced and turned away from his friend. John got up and grabbed a broom to sweep up the magazine pieces. "Mrs. Hudson said you were ignoring her." John mentioned.

"I was thinking."

"About?"

"Just about my next case," Sherlock said.

John laughed. "And how do you know what your new case is?"

Sherlock gave a quick laugh before turning on the television. John stopped his sweeping to watch.

"Breaking news from Royston, Hertfordshire today," the young female newscaster said. "Two hours ago, a young woman was found at the bottom of a nearby pond. Police say that she did not die from drowning but was in fact murdered. Local authorities say they will branching out their team to accommodate for the lack of discernible evidence. More on this situation to come."

John looked at his friend who was smiling broadly at the television. "That's not even in Lestrade's district, Sherlock. Sorry to burst your ego, but that's not your case,"

"Did you not hear?" Sherlock asked angrily. "They will be 'branching out their team'. Obviously, they will come to me. I'm surprised Lestrade isn't here now." He got up to look out the window.

"Sherlock," John began. "Just because you are the world's only consulting detective doesn't mean that every D.I. in the United Kingdom wants to consult with you!"

His friend turned and smiled again. "Ah. But you are missing the most the important part, John. They will come for me, because they know about me."

John rolled his eyes.

"My dear, John," Sherlock chuckled. "Royston is my hometown."

And with that Lestrade came charging through the door and up the stairs. "Sherlock, I have something to ask you–" he started.

"Yes," Sherlock said turning towards the detective.

Lestrade looked confused. "I haven't even asked you yet."

"I'm guessing it has to do with the Royston case."

"Well, yeah," Lestrade blinked.

"And I will go. John, pack up. We are going away for a few days," Sherlock said as he went to his bedroom.

Lestrade and John looked at each other blankly. "And how did he figure that one?" Lestrade asked.

"Apparently, he grew up in Royston," John replied.

"Inspector Henith did mention Sherlock meant a lot to the town. I guess I didn't know exactly what that meant," Lestrade said as he scratched his head.

"Are you coming too?" John asked.

"Henith wanted me as much as he wanted Sherlock," Lestrade grinned happily. "We're old pals, Fredrick and I."

"Did they...mention me?" John asked. He was just as famous as Sherlock, after all.

Lestrade shook his head. "No, but he said Sherlock should bring anyone he sees fit. And I'm pretty sure you'd be on that list."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Royston was a small town not far from Cambridge. Little shops were all along the streets as Sherlock and John drove through. When they arrived at the crime scene, Lestrade was already there waiting.

"How did he get here so fast?" John asked but Sherlock ignored him and hopped out of the car.

"Fred, this is Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade said to Detective Inspector Henith as Sherlock and John walked up. Henith smiled.

"Oh, I remember Sherlock," the older man said as he pulled Sherlock in for a hug. "How are 'ya, boy? Sherlock used to try to help with our cases around the town." The inspector laughed. "He would just walk on in with a whole notebook full of information he had gathered. I always told him he should go into the force."

Sherlock smirked sheepishly. "I have an authority problem."

Henith roared with laughter and slapped Sherlock on the back. "That you do, that you do!"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Inspector, this is my colleague Doctor Watson."

Inspector Henith and John shook hands. "Well, I suppose I should take you all through the crime scene."

They came to the body which had been pulled up from the pond onto a blue tarp. Sherlock immediately went pale when he saw the woman lying there. John touched his friend's arm in concern. "Sherlock?" he said quietly.

"That's Rose Simon. She was...in my class," Sherlock said. He was obviously taken aback.

"I didn't know you knew her Sherlock, I'm sorry. I should've warned you," Henith said. But Sherlock quickly regained his composure.

"No matter. John? Will you examine the body first, please?" Sherlock looked at his friend.

John nodded and walked over to the body. All she had on was a bra and blue jeans, but there was no clear sign of rape. There were red strangulation marks and bruises around her neck, which indicated cause of death as asphyxiation. She also had multiple lacerations on her stomach and chest. John mentioned all of his examinations out loud, and Sherlock was hovering over his shoulder listening intently.

"I'd say time of death was about twelve to fourteen hours ago," John said.

Henith was getting irritated. "Yes, our specialists have already reported that."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, ignoring the older inspector.

John nodded and continued to examine. When he lifted her right arm, Sherlock kneeled beside him. "Something's carved on her arm," John said as he squinted to look at it.

"_Alive and well, sir,_" Sherlock and John both read aloud simultaneously.

Henith sighed. "Yes, yes. We've seen it. Sherlock, you're here to help us figure out the evidence we _can't_ see."

Sherlock ignored him. "What do you make of that?" he asked his companion.

"I don't know. The murderer could have wrote it there. A taunt?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded his head. "No, that was most defiantly her writing it on herself."

"You mean she cut into herself to write a clue?" Lestrade asked.

"How can you be so sure it wasn't the killer?" the other inspector interjected.

Sherlock pointed to the arm. "If murderers want to write messages, they do it in a larger and more open area. Like the back, or chest. But no, this is on the inside of the bicep. There is ink residue in the wounds, so she clearly used a pen to do it. Probably in the back of the killer's car when he wasn't looking. She must have known that he was throwing her into the pond, or she would've just written on herself instead. But then there's–" Sherlock stopped mid deduction and arose to his feet. "No...no, that doesn't make sense."

"What?" John asked.

"I clearly remember that Rose Simon was right handed," Sherlock said in confusion.

"So?" Henith asked.

"So, how can a right handed person write on their right arm?" Sherlock asked. "It's legible, so obviously she did it with her dominant hand. But her left hand is not her dominant hand."

"Well, maybe you remember it wrong! Hell, Sherlock, that was years ago," Henith continued.

"No. No, look," Sherlock lifted her left hand. "She has calluses on her fingertips. That means she was a right handed guitar player." Henith removed the glasses from his pocket to look at Sherlock's findings.

"So it was the murderer, then," Lestrade said.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, it can't be. She did it so it could be easily hidden. She was already bleeding from the other slashes on her, so if she put her arm down, she could hide the message from her attacker who would not be wary of any extra bleeding." Henith looked at Lestrade, who only shrugged. John was smiling.

The inspectors decided to send the body to the medical examiner and meet at the mortuary the next morning. Sherlock was the only one who objected to this, saying that there would be precious time being wasted. But John reminded him that a real examination from a professional would give them the most information. And besides that, John was really wanting to rest.

Sherlock and John headed to the car. "I'm excited about meeting your parents," John said.

"Sorry?" Sherlock asked as he opened the driver's side.

John was confused. "We're staying at your parents, yes?"

"Why would we do that?" Sherlock blinked. John only smiled, and they drove to a local inn.

The inn was very small, and only had one suite which Sherlock insisted on having. "They are the cleanest," was his reasoning. When John went to book his own room, Sherlock stopped him.

"I would prefer if you stayed in my room," he said. The young receptionist giggled.

"Are you insane?" John whispered. "I'm not sleeping with you, Sherlock."

"It's a suite, John, there are two beds," Sherlock sounded annoyed.

"Yes, he's correct. The suite comes included with two queen sized beds," the receptionist commented.

John sighed. "Alright, fine. But why?"

"I will not have you stay in those filthy rooms. I used to work here in secondary school, so I know how bad they are," he said and carried his luggage towards the stairs.

Once they settled in and went back to the lobby to decide on a place to eat, they were greeted by Myrcoft. Sherlock sighed heavily when he saw him.

"Hello, John," Mycroft smiled. John nodded at him. "So, Sherlock, how long were you planning on ignoring Mum and Dad?"

"Ignore them?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," Mycroft stood up from his seat. "They've been calling you. Apparently they heard on the news you'd be in town." Sherlock shrugged.

Mycroft tapped his foot in irritation. "Well, I'm going to dinner over there tonight and I expect you to come to. Please, be an adult about this."

Sherlock looked away and placed his hands behind his back. "I'm not hungry."

"You were just complaining about not eating a few minutes ago," John interrupted. He refused to be part of this sibling rivalry.

Sherlock glared at him. "I will tell Mum you're ignoring her on purpose," Mycroft warned. His brother stared at him.

"Alright," Sherlock growled. He never liked to lose. "We'll come to dinner."


End file.
